Birthday Doxy inspired fiction written to explore a fantasy that could become reality…
I can’t see a thing, my wrists are secured above my head and it’s really very quiet. Well, apart from the sound of my heart beating ten to the dozen and the blood rushing between my ears.
Concerned? Kinda. Excited? Mmhmm. Terrified? Oh hell, yes.
It’s strange really, I know I have the ultimate control. I have given express instructions on what can and can’t happen within this scene but I still don’t know exactly what will happen. That’s always the way when you involve other people, they act in unpredictable ways and that, I suppose, is the delight of it.
So, what do I know?
I know that my darling other half is currently rounding up a certain number of trusted friends. I know they’re going to come in and see me here, tied down, light lingerie covering my modesty. Well at least to start, but sorry, I’m supposed to be listing what I know but my mind is filled with anticipation of what is to come.
So yes, me, on the bed, restrained, blindfolded and the Doxy lying nonchalantly beside me. All the rest is up to them. I’m just hoping that they’re not sadistic enough just to sit back and watch me for the whole entire time. I think my heart would explode if that were the case.
God knows how hard I’d beg for them to do something, anything.
I know there will be touching. Maybe kissing, pinching, scratching and biting.
Actually, I don’t know-know, you know? They can do what they like within certain parameters. The only hard and fast rules are that the only thing to touch my cunt is the Doxy and hands and mouths are all that can touch me anywhere else.
So what happens next could be a cacophony of noise as they laugh and joke and say ‘Hey!’ rolling in as if we were just at any one of the social events we spend time at.
“You a little tied up?” One could ask, with a wry chuckle.
“Just a little.” I might reply, cheeks flushing with heat.
“Need a hand?”
Then hands all over me. Stroking gently, pinching wickedly, tickling because they’re evil buggers and they like the way I squeak and giggle, wiggling around under their touches. Clothing moved, stretched, ripped out of the way. So many voices, so much stimulation, no idea of who is where but then the thrum of the Doxy turned on and the power of it between my thighs.
Grasping, gasping, thrashing until strong hands hold down my ankles and I can’t fight it any longer and I surrender to my ecstatic fate.
Or could it be a quieter affair? The odd creak and scuff the only indication of people around me. First fingers to touch me making me start, then soothe with a stroke.
Slowly, more touches add in. Soft and gentle and terrifying because I know they’re building to something more, something wicked. I know them.
Clothing moved, flesh kissed then bitten. Pinches, bites and slaps all over. Totally focused on multiple levels of pleasure pain until that hum I know so well pricks my ear and suddenly my attention is split between low rumbling almost orgasmic pleasure of the wand and sharp, stinging pain elsewhere.
Overstimulated but under powered until I beg for the Doxy to be turned up. I’d have to beg hard too, to get the reward but one of them will be merciful eventually… Right?
Or maybe they’ll take turns. Organised. Bursts of a certain amount of time, not that I’ll know how long. Time passes differently when you’re being tortured, I find. I won’t know who it is either, unless there’s a beard against me maybe or especially sharp nails or a distinctive scent. I might not be able to work it out anyway, my mind focused in on the wickedly wonderful things being done to me.
Pain, pleasure, both? Orgasm, pain, I won’t know what to expect. Doxy or not? Tortured orgasm after orgasm.
It could be any of those scenarios or something else entirely.
The door creeks.
Now I’ll find out.
© Victoria Blisse